


Return the Favor

by voidfins



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Gen, Hurt Napoleon, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Illya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-03-23 13:03:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13788324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidfins/pseuds/voidfins
Summary: Five times Illya looks out for Napoleon, and one time Napoleon returns the favor





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This is the first fic that I have posted on ao3, but it was previously posted on fanfiction.net. It has been edited and updated since then. I will be posting at least once a week. Please leave a comment if you enjoy it!

Illya hated it when things went wrong. It wasn’t that he didn’t expect them to, but there was a far cry of difference between being prepared for reasonable variations in outcomes and everything going to hell in a handbasket. Like it was doing now.  


The mission, a simple information retrieval, was probably impossible now. Some stupid guard had wandered outside of his normal route checking the grounds of the estate. He shouldn’t have been anywhere near the section of wall that they were scaling. In truth, a lone guard really hadn’t been much of an obstacle for Illya and Napoleon. Illya had snuck up behind him while he was trying to light a cigarette in the brisk night breeze and held him in a chokehold until he passed out. Napoleon had stood aside and smirked the whole time, which was infuriating, but unimportant. If a day came when Illya couldn’t handle one incompetent guard, he would even let the American say “I told you so.”  


They had made their way across the open lawn, using the cover of the shadows to their advantage and avoiding the occasional searchlight swept in haphazard—but easily predictable—patterns across the lush green grass. Illya had let Napoleon do the lock picking because he really didn’t want a repeat of Rome, and also so he could watch out for guards and hiss curt warnings at his partner when they drew too near. He didn’t get a chance to do much hissing. Napoleon was quick with a lock pick, Illya would give him that. Silently. In his head.  


The trouble came when they were in the target’s upstairs office. Napoleon was working on cracking the safe. He’d rolled his eyes when Illya reminded him to disable the alarm, but so far so good. Suddenly, the room lit up as all the searchlights outside came on, sweeping in much more purposeful patterns across the grounds. Illya could hear the obnoxious blare of a klaxon, too.  


“What did you do?” He glared at Napoleon, who glared right back.  


“Nothing! It wasn’t the safe this time.” Illya idly noted that that was about as much of an apology about the last time as he was probably going to get. They both turned towards the window.  


“Someone must have found that guard, or expected him to check in,” Illya guessed. That was the only proof of their entrance. It had to be it.  


“Probably,” Napoleon replied distractedly, “but it doesn’t matter. We have what we came for.” He waved a black computer disc before tucking it into a pouch at his waist.  


“We need to leave,” Illya said. He already had his gun drawn and aimed at the door. It was a toss up over whether the guards would search the house or grounds first. With any luck, they would assume the intruders hadn’t gotten this far.  


“Really, Peril? I thought we’d wait and have tea.” Napoleon was gathering his tools with a haste that belied his sarcasm. Illya ignored the flippant comment. It wouldn’t help their speed to get pulled into an argument right now. It was going to be difficult enough to get out.  


“We’ll have to go out a window,” Illya stated. “They’ll be watching the doors.” He turned to see Napoleon already halfway out the window, pausing midway to look at him.  


“What are you waiting for? We might as well use this one.” The American spy ducked under the sash and disappeared. Illya followed, slightly less gracefully. The slanted slate gables of the mansion were slick with condensation from the cool night air and made treacherous footing. Luckily the house was spread out rather than built up, and only two stories tall, but Illya avoided looking over the edge of the roof all the same. Napoleon led the way with cat like agility, making him wonder exactly how many times the other spy had been in this situation.  


Then, everything went from bad to worse. Illya would never know what possessed whoever was directing the searchlight to sweep it across the roof, but that was all it took for every one of the guards’ attention to zero in on them. The gunfire started moments later.  


“Go!” Illya shouted as bullets tore into the shingles around him. He shouldn’t have bothered--Napoleon was already scrambling more quickly across the peaks. They were running out of roof, though, and Illya didn’t know what he had planned.  


The end of the roof came suddenly. Illya almost fell, but managed to regain his balance at the last second.  


“Now what?” he yelled. He was not panicking. He didn’t panic. Napoleon was looking down. Illya glanced in that direction, but only saw a dark line of bushes.  


“Now we take a leap of faith, Peril!” He pushed Illya, making him lose his balance and tumble off the roof. Illya only had a split second to curse Napoleon back to hell, where he must have come from, before landing.  


The bushes were not soft by any stretch of the imagination, but they were a far cry better than the ground would have been, and it was only a two story fall. He tore himself loose of the prickly branches as fast as he could. Napoleon was doing the same beside him, to the soundtrack of almost constant gunfire, and they started running in silent agreement.  


They lost sight of the guards after scrabbling over the wall again, but the mansion was situated on a hill with only one road down. It wouldn’t take them long to guess where the two were headed. They’d stashed the jeep in some deep shadows near where they entered.  


“Take the wheel, Peril,” Napoleon barked as they vaulted into the vehicle. Illya didn’t argue—he had planned on it anyway. They burst out onto the dirt road just as two land rovers left the front gate. Illya ducked as a bullet pinged off the metal frame.  


“Get them off our tail,” he shouted at Napoleon. The other spy twisted in his seat, pulling his gun as he went and firing several rounds in quick succession. Whatever he was doing worked, Illya decided, as one of the other vehicles abruptly flipped and landed upside down in the ditch. The other drew back a little, giving Illya room to slam on the brakes and force them to rear end the jeep. That close, it was impossible for Napoleon to miss the driver. Illya slammed the gas pedal into the floor and they flew away from the two disabled vehicles.  


Once they were back on the main roads and working their way into the city, Illya slowed the jeep. It would be stupid to attract attention now. They needed to ditch their vehicle somewhere and get back to the hotel room. Hopefully Gaby would be back from her part of the mission and they could—  


A strangled gasp from the passenger seat abruptly cut off his train of thought. He looked towards the sound to see Napoleon hunched over, with his hand to his shoulder.  


“What is it?” Illya demanded.  


“Got hit,” Napoleon bit out. Illya frowned. How had he not noticed?  


“When? How bad?”  


“Before I jumped off the roof, and I don’t know.” Napoleon’s face looked pale, but that could have been a trick of the light. His black clothing made it hard to tell how much he was bleeding, but his hands were covered in dark blood.  


“We are almost to the hotel,” Illya finally said. “Keep pressure on it.”  


“Thanks for the advice,” Napoleon snorted, but his voice only had a shade of the normal sarcasm.  


Illya drove as fast as he dared through the streets, but he could only do so much without attracting the attention of the law. He finally got within walking distance of their hotel and parked the jeep. He would have to come back and disguise it more permanently later, but this darkened lot would do for now.  


Napoleon had become quieter the closer they got the hotel. Illya could feel dread growing in the pit of his stomach. He crossed the the passenger side and opened the door. The American was leaning against the seat, head back.  


“Cowboy,” Illya prodded him, “we have to go. Now. No sleeping.” Napoleon opened his eyes and made an effort to exit the jeep, but Illya ended up almost dragging him out of it. He could feel the dampness of his partner’s shirt. Napoleon was barely standing upright now, and Illya suspected that he would be on the ground if not for the Russian’s grip on him.  


“Come on, Cowboy,” he muttered, “let’s go.”  


They made their way to the back entrance of the hotel more slowly than Illya would have liked. By the time they reached it Illya was almost completely supporting his partner’s weight. Somehow they made it to the room he and Gaby shared—thank god it was only on the second floor— without any encounters of the staff or other guests. Illya guessed the extremely early hour helped with that.  


Gaby opened the door before he could do much more than fumble with the room key. She kept her head at the sight of her two bedraggled partners, moving out of the way so Illya could get inside and quickly shutting the door behind them.  


“What happened?” She demanded in a low, harsh, tone as Illya laid his burden on the couch.  


“Mission went to hell,” Illya said shortly, grabbing the medical bag from under his bed. “Quickly, I need hot water and clean cloths.” She jumped to do as he asked, but Illya suspected they’d have to explain it all in detail later.  


“I am not doing that alone, Solo,” he grumbled, cutting through the American’s soaked shirt.  


“Do wha’?” Illya jerked in surprise. He had thought Napoleon was unconscious, but apparently not.  


“Nothing. Stay awake.” The blue eyes, hazy and confused, slipped halfway shut, but didn’t close completely. That would have to be enough. Gaby returned with the water and rags.  


“What do you need me to do?” She asked. He glanced up at her. She looked determined.  


“Put pressure here, and try to keep him awake.” He had to see if the bullet was still in the wound. In the background he could hear Gaby talking to Napoleon, trying to get him to reply, but it was a losing battle. Illya’s job got a whole lot easier when he discovered the exit wound on Napoleon’s back. No bullet, then, but now he had to stop his partner dying of blood loss.  


Gaby’s efforts were helping slow the flow of blood, but it wasn’t until Illya had stitched both holes that they were able to get it under control. The bullet had hit his shoulder, but Illya was confident that it hadn’t irreparably damaged anything important. Reasonably confident, anyway. They couldn’t go to a hospital, so he had to be. After he was done stitching, he had Gaby switch places with him so that he could set up a transfusion line and she could wrap bandages around Napoleon’s waist.  


Illya had pushed his worry to a back corner of his mind as he worked, but now that he didn’t have the delicate stitching to concentrate on, it reared its head again. Napoleon’s breathing was shallow, and his pulse was rapid and thready when Illya checked it. Not good signs.  


“What are you doing?” Gaby asked, as he attached the other end of the transfusion line to his own arm, “Will that work?”  


“Universal donor,” Illya grunted as the needle slid home. He just hoped it would be in time. 

*****  


He kept watch until well after dawn--well after Gaby fell asleep with on the floor beside the couch, head leaning against the cushions. Napoleon’s color had gradually improved, and Illya had finally judged him strong enough and removed the line.  


It was almost ten o’clock before a flutter of movement caught Illya’s attention. Napoleon was shifting restlessly, eyes twitching behind closed lids. Illya waited, and a few moments later his eyes slid open. He blinked slowly a few times before focusing on Illya’s face. They were almost level, since Illya was also sitting on the floor.  


“Peril?” His voice was rough.  


“Yes, I am here,” Illya replied quietly, not wanting to wake Gaby. Napoleon stared at him for a second.  


“I take it I’m not dead, then” he stated flatly.  


“You didn’t think I was going to let you report this mess to Waverly alone, did you?” Illya shot him a sly grin. Napoleon coughed out a small laugh but looked like he immediately regretted it as he tensed in pain.  


“Don’t do that,” he gasped. “Hurts to laugh.”  


“Probably going to hurt to do anything for awhile,” Illya observed.  


“Yeah, well, at least I’m still around. Thanks for that.” Illya shrugged.  


“No problem.” He was still going to make Napoleon give Waverly the report.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try to put up a chapter for this every Monday until I run out. Thanks for the comments! They really make my day!

“Open up, Cowboy!” Illya pounded on the door for the third time in five minutes. “We are going to be late for our meeting.” He raised his hand to knock again when the door finally swung open. Napoleon stood there in a robe, blinking sleepily at him.  
“What are you doing? Waverly is waiting. We will be late,” Illya reiterated, pushing the door all the way open and walking in. Napoleon obligingly stepped aside to let him pass.  


“I overslept,” he mumbled. “Give me a minute.” He disappeared into the bedroom and closed the door. Illya narrowed his eyes in the direction that his partner had vanished. As far as he knew, Napoleon was an early riser.  


“If you wouldn’t be up so late with women and alcohol you wouldn’t oversleep,” he called to the closed door. It opened a few moments later, revealing a now mostly dressed Solo fumbling with his tie.  


“There wasn’t either of those things,” he shot back. “I was just tired.” Illya hadn’t been expecting that admission, prepared for Napoleon to brush off his comments with sarcasm and a smile. He didn’t have anything to say to it, either, so he just harrumphed and gestured impatiently for the American to finish dressing so they could go. 

*****  


Gaby was waiting for them in the lobby downstairs. Unlike Napoleon, Illya had undeniable proof that she had drank heavily last night. Her favorite pair of sunglasses were perched on her nose, and her arms were crossed. Neither of his partners seemed to be in a chatty mood, which suited Illya just fine. They walked a few blocks east to the restaurant where Waverly would no doubt be already waiting.  


Paris in January was cold and rather drab, as well as damp. There hadn’t been a good snow for awhile, and the old was packed down and muddied by the feet of hundreds of passers-by. Illya decided that if he had to deal with cold and snow he would much rather be in rural Russia, where at least the view of the sky was not blocked by towering buildings made of stone that matched the road. He kept his thoughts to himself.  


The cafe that they had been told to come to was a cozy one, with large windows in front to let in the natural light, but enough lamps on the tables to warm up the winter rays a bit. A rush of warm air left as Illya opened the door and herded the other two inside. Waverly was waiting at a back table, in the corner. He had a newspaper unfolded in front of him and a small coffee cup on the table that was half empty.  


“You’re late, you know,” The Brit raised one eyebrow at their windblown and slightly disheveled appearance. He didn’t seem too put out.  


“Cowboy decided to sleep in,” Illya declared, seating himself where he could watch the door. Waverly glanced at Napoleon, who only shrugged and sat down across from Illya. The Russian decided to keep a closer eye on him—he’d never seen him this quiet before. Before that conversation could go any farther Gaby plopped down in the remaining chair and sighed heavily.  


“I need coffee,” she said matter of factly.  


“Of course,” said Waverly, shaking his newspaper into submission. “I recommend the café crème, it’s very popular.”  


“Fine,” said Gaby, waving her hand, “as long as there is caffeine.” Napoleon ordered a cappuccino, and Illya stuck with plain espresso.  


“Now then,” said Waverly after their coffee had arrived, “I’m afraid that this mission is somewhat of a reversal from your previous ones. Instead of retrieving information, I need you to plant evidence. False evidence, of course, but since we’re absolutely sure that Monsieur Bouchard is up to no good, what with his smuggling ring and all, it simply comes to the matter of proving it. The French government is a tad impatient, so they’ve asked us to...expedite the matter. All right?” He paused, evidently prepared for questions or comments, possibly concerns. Silence. Illya cleared his throat.  


“When are we supposed to do this?” he asked.  


“As soon as possible,” Waverly replied, “tonight, if you can pull it off. Think you can manage that?”  


“After a few more cups of coffee, probably,” Gaby put in.  


“Whatever you need, my dear,” Waverly told her. “After all, you’ll be distracting Bouchard on the other side of town, so you’ll need to be at the top of your game.” The three spies rolled their eyes almost as one.  


“I’m shocked,” Gaby deadpanned. “I never would have guessed that I am the distraction. Again.”  


“Really?” Waverly smiled, the picture of innocence. “I thought you would have been used to it by now. Bouchard will be frequenting his favorite gentleman’s club on the other side of the city. You’ll come in shortly after he arrives. Make an entrance, sweep him off his feet. Then, when you get the signal from Solo and Kuryakin, leave him there. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.”  


“Of course,” Gaby commented dryly, “that is provided that these two do their jobs correctly.”  


“Well, yes,” Waverly allowed. “I’m sure they’re up for it, aren’t you, boys?”  


“We’ll try not to let you down,” Napoleon said, the first words he’d spoken since they had arrived at the cafe. Illya grunted his agreement.  


“Very well. I’m off. The plans of Bouchard’s building will be in your rooms when you return. Best of luck.” Waverly disappeared out the door.  


The three of them left soon after.

*****  


Illya was getting very tired of knocking on Napoleon’s door. Luckily, this time Gaby was with him. Napoleon had been teaching her the basics of lockpicking, and she had the door open soon enough—though not as fast as the American would have. He seemed to have an innate talent for getting where he wasn’t supposed to be.  


“He’d better not be entertaining,” Gaby muttered, letting Illya enter first. They had come down to discuss their plan of action for the evening.  


Illya walked into the room and looked around. Something wasn’t right. The curtains were drawn and the weak January light was barely filtering through them, leaving the room dim.  


“Solo?” Illya called, pulling his gun. There was no answer. He walked to the adjoining bedroom and pushed open the door. Gaby trailed him. He stopped short when he saw Napoleon laying on the bed, still fully dressed. Illya made his way over and put his fingers to the American’s neck to check his pulse.  


He was just as startled as Napoleon was when the other pulled away suddenly, only half upright.  


“What are you doing in here?” Napoleon squinted at him. It took him a moment too long to notice Gaby. “And Gaby?”  


“We came to discuss the plan,” Illya said, flustered. “What are you doing?” Napoleon looked around.  


“Resting my eyes?”  


“Is that a question or answer?” Illya looked at him suspiciously. His face was flushed, and he still looked confused.  


“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Gaby grumbled, moving forward and putting her hand on Napoleon’s forehead. He flinched, but held still.  


“Your hands are cold,” he complained.  


“No they aren’t,” she retorted, “You are warm.” Both men stared at her, uncomprehending. She sighed, exasperated. “He’s sick. He has a fever.”  


“I don’t get sick,” Napoleon stated. Gaby threw up her hands.  


“Well you are now. We’ll have to call Waverly and tell him to postpone the mission.”  


“That’s ridiculous,” Napoleon said, “I’m perfectly able to—” He stood up and blanched. Illya caught his arm before he made contact with the floor, cautiously depositing him back on the bed. The American had turned an interesting shade of green.  


“Are you going to throw up?” Illya asked suspiciously.  


“No?” Napoleon replied hesitantly. Illya rolled his eyes.  


“Stop answering questions with questions. There is no way I will let you be my backup when you can’t even stand up properly.”  


“I can stand just fine,” his partner muttered mutinously. “It was just a head rush.”  


“No,” Illya and Gaby said together. There was silence for a moment. At least now Illya knew why the American had seemed off all day. He’d never seen him with so much as a sniffle, but if it was anything like his own infrequent illnesses then it would probably be bad. He made a decision.  


“You’re staying here. Gaby and I will complete the mission. There were no safes to crack—I don’t need you.” Illya regretted his choice of words when Napoleon gave him a pitiful look, like a kicked dog.  


“Fine,” Napoleon told him, “I don’t want to go anyway.” He leaned forward to take off his shoes and almost face planted in the floor, Illya’s grip on his arm once again the only thing between him and a painful landing. Gaby made an exasperated noise and crouched to pull his shoes off. Illya watched his face and was surprised to see embarrassment. Apparently being sick destroyed Napoleon’s filters. That or he was just so out of it that he didn’t realize he was making faces.  


Shoes removed, Napoleon flopped back onto the pillows and turned to the other side, facing away from them.  


“Fine, have fun being out in the cold.” Gaby and Illya exchanged a look. It wasn’t like Napoleon to be spiteful. Sarcastic, yes—but not childishly petty. They left the room and made their way back to their own room.  


“Should we call Waverly after all?” Gaby asked him. He considered, but shook his head.  


“Who knows how long it’s going to take for Cowboy to get over it. We might as well go ahead and complete the mission.”

*****  


They did complete the mission, but not quite the way they had planned. Gaby did an admirable job putting up with Bouchard’s advances, right up until he crossed a line and she slapped him, sweeping out of the club in a huff. It didn’t really matter in the long run, but her departure was ahead of schedule and Bouchard—who’s evening had been thoroughly ruined—headed for home with Illya still in the study. He was barely able to stash the fake documents behind one of the paintings before slipping out a window right as Bouchard walked in.  


Illya cursed himself for getting used to having Napoleon as a backup as he dropped from the roof onto a car and disappeared down a side alley. It was getting too easy to rely on others—but he was reluctant to give it up, for some reason.  


Gaby met him at the designated corner. She was huddled inside her coat, breath visible in the cold night air.  


“Took you long enough,” she told him.  


“It’s done,” he reminded her. They made their way back to the hotel.  


“We should check on Solo,” Gaby said as they climbed the stairs, “he could be dead by now.”  


“A little cold is not going to kill him,” Illya retorted. They ended up in front of his room anyway. This time, Illya didn’t even bother knocking. He’d swiped the spare key from the desk when they had left earlier.  


This time Napoleon wasn’t in bed. Illya had a brief moment of panic before he heard the awful sounds coming from the bathroom.  


“All yours,” Gaby said, “I’m going to make myself a drink. She headed towards the liquor cabinet with a single-minded determination. Illya cautiously made his way to the bathroom. The door was open a crack, but the light was off. He pushed it open farther and flipped the switch.  


There was an inarticulate groan when the light came on, followed by more retching. Napoleon was wrapped around the toilet in the most undignified position Illya had ever seen him in. Eventually the current round of heaving stopped and the American slid back to lean against the tub, hand coming up to shield his eyes.  


“Go ‘way. Turn off the light.” Illya crouched in front of him, tentatively reaching out to check his temperature. He couldn’t say for certain, but he thought it had risen from earlier. There was a fine sheen of sweat on Napoleon’s face, which was scrunched up in pain.  


“You going to make it, Cowboy?” he asked, although it was a stupid question. He couldn’t think of what else to say.  


“No,” Napoleon groaned. “Leave me be.” He was shivering. Illya decided that it was too pitiful to ignore.  


“Are you done in here?” He didn’t want to drag him to the bed if he was just going to have to come straight back. Napoleon cracked one eye to look at him.  


“Maybe?”  


“Didn’t I say to stop answering questions with questions?” Illya grumbled.  


“Prob’bly,” Napoleon said with only slightly more confidence. Illya decided it would have to do. He slung Napoleon’s arm over his shoulder and slowly raised him to a standing position, keeping in mind what a sudden change in altitude had done earlier. There were a couple more quiet moans, but nothing else so Illya decided that they were in the clear.  


In the main room, Gaby was sitting on the couch sipping something amber colored out of a glass.  


“He’s still alive?” she guessed.  


“For now,” Illya grunted. She got up and moved ahead of him to the bedroom, pulling down the covers.  


“I’ll get him a glass of water.” She disappeared into the other room.  


“You had better appreciate this, Cowboy,” Illya told his semi-conscious partner. He pulled off Napoleon’s shirt and pants and pulled the covers over him. Napoleon mumbled something and pressed his face against the pillows. Gaby came back with the water and set it down on the table. They both stood there, looking at each other for a minute, not knowing what to do.  


“Should we call a doctor?” Illya asked, finally.  


“I don’t know,” Gaby said. “I’m not even sure where we would find one.” She perked up a bit. “But I did see a drugstore on the next street over. I can go get cold medicine. That should help.” She grabbed her coat and was out the door again before Illya could offer more than a weak protest. He would rather have gone himself instead of Gaby going out alone with full night coming on, but she would have scoffed at him. Instead, he focused on Napoleon, who was still shivering. To be fair, it was chilly in the room. He decided to start a fire in the main room.  


Soon there was a decent sized blaze going behind the grate and the room was noticeably warmer. Illya paced back to the bedroom to make sure Napoleon hadn’t gone anywhere in his absence.  


The problem was—he had. Illya sighed. This time he could guess where. He stepped back over to the bathroom and, sure enough, Napoleon was heaving over the toilet again. At least he had enough sense to keep it confined, Illya thought. He’d dragged the comforter with him, apparently still somehow trying to keep some dignity.  


“Come on, Cowboy,” Illya said when he seemed to be finished. Again. “The bathroom floor is not a place to stay.” He was getting an overwhelming sense of deja vu.  


Napoleon decided to rebel halfway to the bedroom, leaning towards the couch in front of the fireplace like a determined drunk.  


“No, to the bed,” Illya told him. Napoleon ignored him. Typical. Giving in, he let the American pull him towards the couch. Somehow, in an only barely controlled fall, Illya ended up sitting on one end with Napoleon curled up against him, facing the back of the couch. All he could see was a shock of almost black hair— the rest was cocooned in swathes of blanket. He thought about getting up, but the thought of wrestling with clingy, delirious Solo wasn’t worth it, and the fire was nice.

*****  


Illya woke to the sound of the door clicking shut. The fire had burned down a bit, but it was still bright and the room was still pleasantly warm, so it hadn’t been too long. He looked up to see Gaby with a bemused expression on her face.  


“How did that happen?” she asked softly, gesturing to his predicament.  


“He’s clingy,” Illya half grumbled. She snorted.  


“Right. Well I got aspirin and a couple of hot-water bottles. How is his fever?” Illya put his hand to Napoleon’s forehead. He couldn’t tell, really, but it didn’t seem to be drastically different.  


“About the same, I think,” he told her. She nodded.  


“At least it hasn’t gotten any worse.” There was a mischievous spark in her eyes. “Since you’ve got this covered, I’m taking the spare bed.” She vanished into the bedroom. Illya started to wonder if hanging around two spies was beginning to rub off on her, as often as she disappeared. Resigning himself to an uncomfortable night, he settled in.

*****  


The next time, it was movement that woke him. Specifically, Napoleon sitting up.  


“What the hell?” the American asked. Illya regarded him calmly. He looked less like death warmed over and more like someone who’d had a terrible night of sleep, so that was a plus. His voice was still raspy, but he was speaking in complete and understandable sentences. Also a plus.  


“I thought you never get sick,” Illya said. Napoleon frowned. His hair was sticking up at odd angles and he looked like a child, wrapped in the comforter.  
“I don’t.”  


“Well you did.” seeing an opportunity, Illya levered himself off the couch, stretching out the kinks in his back.  


“Is that why I feel like shit?” Napoleon asked pitifully.  


“Apparently,” Illya told him seriously, “when Americans are sick they talk about all sorts of things.” Napoleon eyed him.  
“What sorts of things?”  


“Oh, many things that are interesting to know.” Illya had to turn around to hide his grin as his partner groaned and flopped full length on the couch, pulling the blanket over his head.  


It had been a long, worrying night—but the next week was going to make up for it. Especially if Napoleon never realized that he hadn’t said much of anything at all.


	3. Chapter 3

They hadn’t told them that there would be so many guards. Illya doubted it was Waverley’s fault that the intel was incomplete, but that didn’t mean he had to be happy about the fact that there were six hulking brutes instead of two. That was something he would have preferred to know beforehand. He would have brought his back-up pistol.  


“Brutes” wasn’t an understatement, either. The majority of the guards were almost as tall and muscled as Illya. He didn’t like it. Much easier to intimidate when you could look down on someone. Two of them had gone down quickly—one to his fists, and one to Napoleon. That would have been the end of it if someone hadn’t screwed up. The American was a good fighter, but most of his plans hinged on not getting caught in the first place, and that wasn’t an option here.  


The guards were smarter than the average minion, too. They had split up after the initial conflict to take on each spy separately, moving them apart so they couldn’t fight back to back. Illya cursed whoever had taught them to do that under his breath, even as he took out half of his “escort”. He could only hope that Gaby was doing alright with getting Berenson into the car, because there was no way he could help her right now.  


The other mercenary got inside his reach and they grappled for a few seconds, each trying to get the upper hand. The man grinned, baring his teeth, but Illya was done posturing. He brought his knee up into the man’s groin, finishing him with another punch to the jaw.  


Illya could hear his own breath, harsh in his ears as he tried to catch it. He looked up. Napoleon had managed to take out one of his own “friends,” but the last one was actually taller than Illya. He had the American by the throat, feet dangling above the ground. That wasn’t good. Illya couldn’t see where his gun had gone—dropped at the beginning of the fight—so he did the next best thing.  


He tackled the guy.  


It was like hitting a brick wall (and he would know. It had happened before), but he succeeded in bringing the guard to the floor. He didn’t have much of a size advantage here, but he did have leverage. The guard lay still after his head met the floor a couple of times.  


Illya stood. They really needed to leave, before someone was alerted that the prisoner hadn’t been escorted safely out. Napoleon was sitting against the wall, gasping for breath and pale.  


“We have to go,” Illya said, taking his arm and pulling him to his feet. He swayed, but stayed standing. There was already a ring of bruises beginning to show on his neck. Illya winced. That was going to hurt after the adrenaline wore off.  


They ran out of the warehouse. Gaby was waiting in a nondescript black sedan, impatiently tapping on the steering wheel. She hit the gas almost before the two spies were in the car.  


“What took so long?” she demanded, screeching around a corner. Illya turned in his seat to peer out the back window. Berenson was cowering in one corner, looking like he was about to piss himself.  


“There were more guards than we were led to believe. Took a while to get rid of them,” Illya told her. There was no sign of pursuit that he could see. Whoever had kidnapped the American senator had clearly decided that they were unstoppable. Idiots. He glanced at Napoleon, also in the back seat. “You okay, Solo?” Napoleon looked up from where he was reloading his gun.  


“Peachy,” he rasped. He sounded like he’d been gargling with glass shards.  


“What happened to him?” Gaby asked, taking another corner at a higher speed than Illya thought was possible, at least with the laws of physics. He surreptitiously tightened his grip on the seat.  


“He let a giant get its hands around his neck,” Illya said. Napoleon frowned at him, but said nothing. Either he didn’t have a comeback for that, or it wasn’t worth trying to talk again. Probably both. 

*****

Luckily for the three of them, passing Berenson off to Waverly was easy and fuss-free. By the time they made it back to their rooms, Napoleon’s neck was almost solid black and blue. Gaby’s eyes widened when she saw it.  


“You weren’t kidding about the giant,” she said.  


“No,” Illya agreed, rummaging through their first aid kit to find a piece of clean gauze. Napoleon had slumped into a kitchen chair. The fact that he hadn’t even attempted to pour himself a drink was telling. Illya ran the gauze under cold water and held it out to him  


“Put this on it, maybe it will help with the swelling,” he said. Napoleon raised his head carefully and took the dripping fabric, again with no comment. He would probably be fine in a week or so, but Illya resolved to have Waverley send someone to check anyway.  


Until then, it was going to be very quiet. He turned away to hide his grin. Being unable to speak was going to drive Napoleon crazy, but he and Gaby wouldn’t mind being the chatty ones for awhile. 

*****  


It was several hours later before Gaby noticed that Napoleon was having trouble breathing. The quiet in the room was both refreshing and slightly disturbing. Illya had gotten used to Napoleon chatting away, even when no one was answering him. By unspoken agreement he and Gaby had decided to stay in the American’s room for a while after the drop off to wait for Waverley to call and tell them where to head next. That’s what Gaby said out loud, anyway. It was a good excuse for staying and making sure Napoleon was alright.  


Illya was attempting to teach Gaby chess. She wasn’t very good at it, but he hoped that with practice she would improve. Right now she aggressively moved pieces around the board, trying to conquer his side by force. He’d tried to explain to her that chess was about seeing the steps ahead of you, but she wasn’t getting it.  


Gaby had just knocked one of his pawns off of the board and was having a minor celebration.  


“It’s not that important a piece,” Illya told her, exasperated.  


“But it is a piece!” She exclaimed, “Isn’t that right Solo?” Napoleon usually egged her on in these situations. He was sitting beside her on the couch, and she turned to look at him, but froze.  


Napoleon was sitting very still and upright, a look of concentration on his face. Now that he was paying attention, Illya could hear his raspy breathing from where he sat, opposite the coffee table.  


“Napoleon?” Gaby questioned, scooting over to him. “What’s wrong?” Illya stood and took the two steps separating him from the couch. Even kneeling, he could almost look Napoleon in the face. There was a worrying blue-ish tinge to his lips, and his eyes held a contained panic. It was obvious that he wasn’t getting enough air.  


“Gaby, go get ice from down the hall,” Illya ordered. “As much of it as you can manage, but be quick.” She jumped up and was out the door in a flash. Illya considered Napoleon for a moment. He was doing a very good job at not panicking.  


“You should have gotten our attention,” Illya said reproachfully. There was a tiny movement in the American’s shoulders that could have been a shrug. “Lean your head back.” He gently pushed him against the couch cushions. Napoleon obeyed and let his head fall back.  


Illya got up and called Waverley, telling him to send a doctor they could trust to Solo’s room. He hung up before the Brit could ask what was wrong.  


Gaby came back with the ice, and helped Illya roll it up in a hand towel and pack it around Napoleon’s neck. He flinched at the cold, but didn’t protest—not that he really could. He was too concerned with getting enough air.  


A few eternal minutes later there was a knock at the door. Illya opened it to find a very short man—almost as short as Gaby—with thin grey hair and round spectacles that the pushed back up his nose with one finger as he looked up at the Russian.  


“Must be the right place, then,” he said. His accent was British. He practically pushed past Illya to get into the room, and made his way over to Napoleon.  


“Well then,” the strange doctor said, “what happened?” He lifted the now damp towel away to reveal the black band of bruises around Napoleon’s neck. Marks where the thug’s fingers had been were visible; Illya wanted to track him down and cave his head in, but that wasn’t helpful at the moment. The doctor tutted. “That is unfortunate. I take it you’re having difficulties breathing properly?” Even mute, Napoleon’s face was expressive, and his what-do-you-think look was unmistakable, even to a stranger.  


“No need to get snippy,” the man admonished.  


Illya wandered in and out of the other room while the doctor checked his partner over. Gaby perched on the other end of the couch. Finally, he straightened up and started putting his instruments back into his bag.  


“You,” he paused to shake a finger at Napoleon, “are very lucky that your friends are not stupid. They got to you just in time, otherwise your airway could have completely swollen shut. You’re in for an uncomfortable night, but I should say you’ll be breathing normally by tomorrow. The bruising won’t fade for a week or two. I’d advise you not to tangle with whatever that was again.” He turned to look at Gaby and Illya. “As for you two, watch him tonight. If he starts having trouble again, for god’s sake take him to a hospital. There’s not much I can do with him here. The ice was really the best thing for it”  


With that, the odd little man walked right out the door. The three spies looked blankly at one another.  


“Well,” said Gaby, “I guess all British people are like that, after all.” Illya snorted.  


“And I guess that we have all night to teach you how to play chess properly,” he said.

****-  


Gaby didn’t really get any better overnight. In fact, Illya was convinced that she became progressively worse. He wasn’t sure if she was just very bad at strategy, or if she did it to drive him up the wall. Napoleon watched with more interest than Illya would have guessed, and he decided that he would challenge the American to a match later to see if he could play and had neglected to mention it. Anyone would be better than Gaby, at this point, who was trying to stack her pieces as high as she could.  


For now, though, Illya let her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment and let me know what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it OOC? Maybe. Who cares? It's fluffy.

Something was dripping on his face. Illya really wished that Waverly had been able to find them a better room for this mission, if the roof was leaking. Something else was cutting into his neck and chest, growing more uncomfortable by the second. He opened his eyes.  


He wasn’t in a hotel room. He was in a small airplane, but something was wrong. Illya didn’t think that normal planes had tree limbs coming through the front window. He shook his head, trying to clear it, but it only increased the pounding. He raised a hand to his forehead, feeling wetness there. He was bleeding from a cut above his left eye, but it didn’t seem to be too bad. It explained the dripping, at least.  


The situation was coming back to him now. The three of them had been on a mission in Switzerland, retrieving yet another computer disc filled with compromising information (he was really starting to hate those things). The mission, for once, had gone well. He and Napoleon had gotten in and out without alerting anyone to their presence, while Gaby had stayed at the ski lodge serving as their base, patched into the security cameras and directing them. Napoleon had remarked that the most dangerous part of the mission was riding in the untrustworthy plane that was to ferry them to and from their drop-off point. Apparently, he had been right.  


Illya fumbled with the straps holding him in place. It took him a minute to depress the buckle in the right place, but he got it eventually. He went to stand, but the metal groaned and the floor shifted under his feet. He froze. The plane settled again. He risked leaning to one side to peer out of a side window.  


The plane wasn’t on the ground. If they were still flying, that wouldn’t be a problem, but they weren’t and the plane wasn’t on the ground. Illya took a deep breath. He had hated this rickety metal contraption from the moment he laid eyes on it, but this was ridiculous. He released his breath. The first step was to get on the ground, and possibly never on a plane again.  


Another look out the window showed him that the plane was wedged in between two tall fir trees. They were close enough together that the trunks had hit the wings, and the body of the plane was cradled on some thick boughs. It wasn’t particularly stable, but Illya didn’t think that he was in immediate danger of plummeting to his death.  


The second problem was that it was too quiet. Where was Napoleon? He had been in the front with the pilot. Illya slowly shifted his weight and pulled himself forward.  


The pilot was dead. That was immediately evident. He had been impaled by one of the same tree limbs that had saved them from hitting the forest floor. His eyes were open and glazed over. Illya wondered if he had even realized what was happening. Napoleon wasn’t in the passenger seat, but the straps weren’t torn. They looked like they’d never been buckled in the first place.  


“Idiotic American,” Illya muttered in Russian, even though, with all the glass shards and branches in the cockpit it had probably saved his life. Illya hoped he hadn’t broken his neck. The shattered windshield offered a good escape route for Illya. He very, very carefully climbed out through the gap after using one of the branches to remove as much of the glass as possible. It was relatively simple after that to get a good grip on the tree trunk and climb out of the plane.  


The fir tree had plenty of closely spaced branches that made it easy to climb down. He hit the snowy ground with a thump. It had been snowing recently, and the drifts came up over the tops of his boots. If they were here for any length of time he was going to have to figure out some sort of shelter. Speaking of “we”...  


“Solo!” He called. No answer. He turned in a slow circle, then craned his neck to look up at the suspended plane. It was about twenty feet off the ground. The cockpit was facing east, so if someone had been thrown out of it, it would be over that way. He struggled through increasingly tall piles of snow, making slow progress east.  


In the end, Illya found Napoleon by tripping over him. His foot made contact with something solid instead of the soft snow he was expecting, and he fell forward with an explosive burst of air and flailing arms. Illya sat up, disgruntled, and looked to see what had caused his fall.  


“Of course it’s you,” he grumbled out loud, “You are always getting under my feet.” Unfortunately, Napoleon was not conscious to hear his joke. He probably wouldn’t have appreciated it anyway, Illya thought as he moved to check his partner’s pulse. It was slower than he would’ve liked, but steady and strong. He was pale, but that could have been due to the cold. Illya checked him over, but didn’t find any apparent broken bones or gaping wounds. Besides numerous cuts--probably from the glass--and a large contusion and cut at his hair line that looked as if it had stopped bleeding a while ago, he seemed alright. If that wasn’t the case, he’d have to tell the Russian so when he woke up. The deep snow that had cushioned his fall had probably saved his life.  


Illya sat back on his heels and considered. The two of them were mostly in one piece, but they had a few problems. Hopefully Gaby had informed Waverly the moment she lost radio contact with the plane or when it failed to appear at the appointed time and place. That meant there should be someone looking for them. Illya was suddenly very grateful that he hadn’t given in to her pouting and let her come along. Then all three of them would have been in a bigger mess. As it was, it could take hours before a rescue happened.  


His main concerns were shelter and warmth. It was late afternoon, and night would fall soon. The temperature would drop quickly after that, especially this high up in the mountains. He was going to have to find a way to keep the two of them warm.  


Illya considered. He could scavenge supplies from the airplane, but he might as well use what was available to him naturally as well. Looking around, he spied a fir tree that met his requirements--thick boughs, reaching all the way to the ground. He’d have to make some modifications, but it would do.  


He tapped the side of Napoleon’s face.  


“Cowboy. Wake up.” He was rewarded with a groan. “Come on, pull yourself together.”  


Blue eyes squinted up at him.  


“Illya?” Napoleon frowned, then winced. “What happened to the bus that hit me?” Illya snorted.  


“Try airplane. And for the record, you were right about it--piece of junk.” Napoleon stared at him.  


“Did you just say I was right about something? I must be dead.” The Russian rolled his eyes.  


“Enough joking. We need to get out of the open.” He pulled his partner into a sitting position. “Do you think you can walk?” It took a beat too long for Napoleon to register his question.  


“Yeah, I’m fine. Just give me a hand up.”  


Illya stood up and held out his hand. Napoleon reached up and hauled himself up, but overbalanced and fell into him. Illya put a steadying hand on his shoulder.  


“Fine. Right.”  


Napoleon looked like he was trying not to throw up. It took him a few seconds to pull himself together. He looked around, confused.  


“Where’s the plane?”  


Illya pointed. Napoleon followed his hand to their plane, still suspended in the trees. He frowned.  


“Why is it up there, and we’re down here?” If Illya weren’t worried about how long it was taking him to process things, he would have laughed.  


“I climbed. You fell. It’s not important now. Come on,” he said, tugging Napoleon’s arm towards the tree he had chosen.  


The tree was exactly what they needed. On the outside it appeared impenetrable, but the thick needles actually ended several feet from the trunk, leaving a relatively open space with no snow on the ground. They would be able to build a small fire, and the space would stay warm enough to survive until Gaby and Waverly found them. He glanced at his partner, who was using one of the thicker base branches to stay upright. He had a feeling he was going to have to do most of it, but it wasn’t Napoleon’s fault. Illya suspected that he had a nasty concussion. He wasn’t going to be much help.  


“Stay here,” he told the American, who didn’t look like he was going much of anywhere.  


“Where’re you going?” Napoleon asked, blinking at him.  


“To get some supplies. I’ll be back soon.”  


“‘Kay.”  


Illya pushed back out into the open and surveyed the scene. There was a lot of small debris littering the ground under the trees where the plane was trapped, but it wasn’t anything useful. Their bags were probably--hopefully--still in the plane. If he was lucky there might even be some emergency supplies that the pilot kept on hand. Although, if the plane had been any indication, he was doubtful on that front.  


The only way to get at the plane was to climb the tree. It wouldn’t be as easy as coming down had been, but the closely spaced, thick branches would be just as helpful coming up as they were going down.  


Reaching the plane, as he’d suspected, wasn’t the hard part. The hard part was going to be reaching the supplies without sending the pane--and himself--plummeting the rest of the way to the ground.  


The open side of the plane was close enough to the trunk that he could step over into it. He did so, cautiously. Besides some nerve-wracking creaking, nothing happened. He wasn’t going to hold his breath over its stability, though. His and Napoleon’s packs were nestled behind the passenger seats, and easy to get to. He hooked them over a branch outside the plane.  


He looked around the inside of the plane for any sign of emergency supplies, but nothing was forthcoming, and he didn’t want to risk displacing the plane by moving around too much. The only things he saw that might be of use were a yellow tarp and some blankets.  


Climbing back out onto the tree, he threw the packs down one at a time, trying to aim at the deeper drifts. He just hoped that nothing important had broken, either in the crash or the fall to the ground. Then he made his own--slower--way to the ground.  


Napoleon hadn’t moved much from where he had left him, except that he was now sitting on the ground with his back to the tree trunk. His eyes were closed, but they opened when Illya came through the branches carrying the blankets and both of their packs.  


“Successful hunting?” The American guessed. Illya noted with some relief that he sounded better than he had before.  


“You could say that,” Illya said. “I found a tarp, too. We can hang it over the branches for more insulation.” Napoleon nodded, reaching out to grab his pack from lllya.  


“Check and see if your radio survived,” Illya told him.  


“Even if it did, these are for short range transmission between you and me if we got separated,” Napoleon said, looking up at him. “We won’t be able to reach Gaby with them.”  


“I know,” Illya said, “but if there’s anyone living out here we might be able to reach them. I’d take a cabin over a tree any night.” He left Napoleon rummaging through his belongings and went to get the tarp. While outside, he kicked around, trying to find some rocks. The snow made it almost impossible, but he found four or five fist sized chunks of stone in the shallow snow beneath a younger fir tree. He put them, along with some of the smaller downed branches from their wreck on the tarp and hauled it into their space in the tree.  


Napoleon looked up from where he was sorting out supplies.  


“My radio is busted. Yours still works, but I can’t raise anyone on it.” He looked up and winced. “You couldn’t find something in a less offensive color?” Illya looked at the tarp and huffed.  


“Let me just tell the pilot to pack something in a better color next time. No, Solo, this was all I could find.”  


“The pilot,” Napoleon started hesitantly, “Is he…?”  


“Dead,” Illya told him gruffly, “Probably the moment we crashed. There’s nothing we could have done.”  


“Oh.”  


Illya glanced at him when he looked back down at the supplies. He was obviously bothered by the pilot’s death--they’d been chatting up a storm during the flight. He suspected the concussion wasn’t doing him any favors either.  


“What about the matches? Did they make it?” Illya asked after a moment.  


“Both packs. If nothing else, we can set things on fire,” Napoleon said. He put one pack of matches in Illya’s outstretched hand. Illya began to set up a small fire pit after clearing a space of fallen pine needles and other forest debris. The rocks went in a circle, and some of the smaller branches he’d brought in were broken up for tinder.  


He prodded Napoleon into helping him get the tarp over some branches above them to make a sort of roof. If nothing else, it would keep snow from falling on their heads. Then he kindled the fire. It took two matches to get the little bundle of pine needles wrapped in a strip of gauze from their emergency medical kit to light, but it finally caught. The broken up branches went shortly after that. It only took a little bit for the small space around the tree trunk to start feeling warmer. Illya was grateful--the sun would be down in less than a hour.  


The branches he was burning were, unfortunately, not dried out and produced more smoke than was comfortable, but the fire was small enough that a hole cut in the tarp above it vented most of the smoke.  


Napoleon hadn’t gotten any chattier as time passed. Illya could tell that he was hurting, but that was to be expected. He was probably covered in bruises, and the cut on his head had to be painful. It was a miracle neither of them had any broken bones. Currently, the American was sitting under the tarp, leaning against the trunk of the fir.  


“You okay, Cowboy?” Napoleon looked up.  


“Nothing a week of sleep wouldn’t cure. What about you? You look like you’ve done three rounds with an angry bear.”  


“More like a couple of trees,” Illya snorted. “Nothing so exciting as a bear.”  


“The point stands. Come over here and let me look at that cut on your face.”  


“Fine. As long as you let me look at your head after that.” It was telling that Napoleon didn’t even really try to argue.  


Illya winced as Napoleon probed the cut above his eye.  


“It doesn’t look too bad. Probably won’t even scar,” the American told him.  


“I could have told you that,” Illya grumbled. It still hurt. “My turn.”  


Napoleon leaned his head back against the tree trunk and closed his eyes as Illya explored the wound. It was worse than his own, but not life-threatening. The blood had clotted, and he didn’t want to start the bleeding again in order to stitch it up. If Gaby wasn’t there by tomorrow, maybe, but it would be alright for the night.  


“You’ll live,” he told the other man. “It’s not like your brains weren’t already scrambled.” Napoleon huffed a laugh at that. He took it as a good sign. “All the same, no sleeping.”  


“Wonderful,” Napoleon groaned. “The cherry on top of a terrible day.”  


“Wasn’t my idea to crash the plane,” Illya said.  


“I don’t think it was anyone’s idea. Why did we crash anyway?” His partner asked, opening his eyes again.  


“You don’t remember?” Illya asked him.  


“Not really.”  


“Some sort of engine failure, I think. Other than that I’m not sure, and I don’t care enough to climb up again and try to find out.”  
Napoleon hummed his agreement.  


They spent the next several hours taking turns keeping one another awake. Illya, always prepared, had some ration packs with him, and they warmed those up over the fire and ate them. The Russian was surprised when Napoleon didn’t voice a complaint over the food.  


“Not what you’re used to, is it?” He asked. Napoleon shrugged.  


“I’ve had worse. You can’t get much lower than prison food.” Illya glanced over at him to gauge his reaction. Sometimes he forgot that his partner had been recruited out of prison. He didn’t seem to be bothered by talking about it.  


“I guess not,” Illya ventured. “We ate these all the time during training.”  


“Lots of survival courses in the dead of winter?” Napoleon asked.  


“It’s almost always winter in some parts of Russia,” Illya said, “so you could say that.”  


“I always liked camping,” the American offered. “Of course, there’s a right way and a wrong way to do everything, and this” he waved a hand at their impromptu tent, “is the wrong way.”  


“Well, it’s not like we had much of a choice,” Illya grunted, “but maybe next time we should pack a tent. Just in case.”  


“I’m not getting on any more planes that look like garbage barges, so the point should be moot.”  


Illya was already trying to figure out how to include a tent in his gear. It might take some work. A question occurred to him.  


“Did you camp much?”  


Napoleon didn’t answer right away. Illya was going to let it slide--after all, there were parts of his life that he didn’t want to discuss--when the other man spoke.  


“We camped a lot, especially during the summer. Usually me and my dad, but sometimes I went alone. We owned plenty of acreage, so I could roam where I wanted. The stars were always incredible. You can’t see those in big cities.” He looked up, almost reflexively, but Illya knew the tarp and the tree branches would be blocking any sign of the sky.  


“The stars are nice in the wilderness,” Illya said quietly. He was rewarded with a genuine smile from Napoleon--not one of the fake ones that the American used to con people or get his way, or the smirk that was so infuriating, but an actual smile. His memories of home must be as special to him as Illya’s were.  


They sat in companionable silence as the night wore on around them.  


*****  


The sound of a vehicle woke Illya. Or it could have been Gaby shouting over the radio. Either way, he was abruptly wide awake. Beside him, Napoleon blinked at the bright sunlight that filtered through the tree branches.  


“Sounds like our ride’s here,” he remarked. Illya grunted in agreement. The fire was still flickering softly. He had fed it broken branches throughout the night.  


“Illya,” squawked the radio, “if you don’t answer, so help me I’ll bring you back to life and murder you myself. I didn’t spend all night looking for you just to--” he could hear her actual voice echoing the radio close by.  


Illya pushed through the branches and needles, shielding his eyes from the reflected sunlight with his hand.  


“Gaby!” he called, “We are here. Stop yelling.” She whirled around and stomped over to him.  


“Finally! Where’s Napoleon? I want to go. It’s freezing.” She looked like a tiny, angry cat, all bundled up in multiple layers and a coat with fur around the collar. 

Waverly stood by the two ATVs they had apparently used to get to them. It was their engines that Illya had heard.  


“I’m right here.” Napoleon stuck his head out from the tree. There were fir needles in his hair. Illya decided not to point it out.  


“You boys alright?” asked Waverly. he’d moved from his position to stand next to them.  


“Nothing a week of sleep would not fix,” Illya told him. Napoleon smirked. “The pilot didn’t make it.”  


The four of them looked up to the plane. It hadn’t gone anywhere overnight.  


“I’ll have a team take care of it,” Waverly said. “For now, Gaby’s right--let’s get somewhere warm, shall we?”  


They turned and headed for the vehicles.  


“Cowboy,” Illya said.  


“Hmm?”  


“Let’s not go camping again with no tent.”  


Napoleon laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a review and tell me what you think. Just as a note I'm falling asleep typing this so I didn't read it very carefully for typos. Sorry bout it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is late. I've been sick (still am, actually) and was supposed to travel this week. It's been kind of a mess. Hope you enjoy it anyway!

Illya was getting really tired of the unexpected. He wasn’t sure if he was even physically capable of being surprised anymore. The three of them were beginning to have a reputation that he would rather avoid, but it seemed impossible to quell the rumors. Illya was also beginning to think that Waverly found it all to be amusing, so long as they completed their missions. To be fair, there were missions that went off without a hitch. They were few and far between, however.  


That was why, when everything went to hell on a mission in France, Illya wasn’t exactly shocked.  


It had started out decently enough. Waverly ordered the three spies to break into the chateau of a French blueblood to see if there were indeed, as reports indicated, tunnels underneath the main house that could be used to transport drugs, weapons, and other illegal things.  


It had been several months since the team had started working together, and they had gotten comfortable in their roles. Napoleon had started teaching Gaby all of the finer points of breaking and entering, so when she wasn’t busy being a distraction to a target, she accompanied them on their excursions. It had annoyed Illya, at first, because now there were two people he had to make sure didn’t screw up, but then Gaby could pick a lock faster than he could (although not Napoleon, his breaking and entering skills were almost supernatural), so he couldn’t protest anymore.  


So it was Illya, standing watch while his partners searched the ballroom for secret doors, who heard the growling first. It was accompanied by the telltale click-click-click of a four legged animal on wooden floors.  


“Guard dogs,” he hissed, the room echoing his warning back. Gaby paused in her search, looking up and towards the door. Napoleon, kneeling near the massive fireplace, felt around frantically until he found what he was looking for.  


“Here’s the switch,” he whispered, pressing on one of the ornamental swirls that were carved around the mantel in a dizzying display of extravagance. The entire back wall of the fireplace--which Napoleon could almost stand up in--slid away, very slowly.  


“We have to know where it comes out at,” Gaby said, edging closer to the secret tunnel, eyeing the entrance to the ballroom warily.  


“There’s no way to close it from the inside,” Napoleon said, running his hands over the bare earth of the tunnel walls, “or at least no way I can find right now. Probably to keep people from coming in uninvited.”  


Illya, still by the door, held up a hand for silence. The clicking had paused. Then--a loud baying from somewhere close by. The dog--or dogs--had picked up the scent of intruders in the house. They had seconds.  


“Go!” Illya ordered, “through the tunnel!”  


Napoleon pushed Gaby forward and she disappeared into the darkness with only a small flashlight for a guide. Illya motioned for the American to go, but he moved aside.  


“Go ahead, I’ll trigger the door.” There wasn’t time to argue. Shouting now joined the barking of the dogs. Illya flicked on his own flashlight and crouched to enter. Fortunately, the tunnel was taller than the fireplace, and he could stand upright. Napoleon hit the hidden swirl again and slid past the wall as it began to close.  


“That won’t throw them off for long,” he said as the door completely shut off the bright moonlight. They were already moving forward. Illya kept one hand on the wall. It was unnerving being sealed underground. If the other end wasn’t open--well. They'd deal with that if it came to it. Gaby was waiting for them around a curve in the path. Illya gestured for her to lead the way.  


Two minutes later and they all heard the sound they’d been dreading: howls echoing down around them, almost drowning out the human shouts. The dogs were in the tunnel. Gaby started running as fast as she dared in the near total darkness--her flashlight didn’t give her much distance to work with. Illya and Napoleon followed the bobbing light as best they could.  


The pounding of canine feet on packed dirt gave Illya a split second of warning before Napoleon fell into him from behind, pushed by over a hundred pounds of teeth and muscle. His flashlight went out, and Illya’s was out of reach. The tunnels was only illuminated by the flickering light against a wall, but it was enough to see massive, jowled jaws locked around Napoleon’s arm, trying to reach his neck.  


Illya hurled himself onto the dog, grabbing it around the neck and trying to pull it off his partner, shouting for Gaby to run faster, damn it. With a shout, he pried the dog away and shoved it back.  


An explosion echoed in his ear. Napoleon had gotten to his gun with his good hand, shooting blindly into the darkness. There was a yelp, so Illya was pretty sure he’d hit something, but angry baying was still coming out of the blackness. They had only dealt with the fastest of the dogs.  


He grabbed his partner’s arm and hauled him up, ignoring the cry of pain out of necessity. They had to get out of this godforsaken tunnel. He pushed Napoleon in front of them, pulling him up when he stumbled over an uneven patch of dirt. They were running blind.  


Suddenly, Illya realized he could see Napoleon’s bedraggled form in front of him. The ground was different, too--more rock, less dirt. They burst out into a shallow cave. He could see the entrance.  


Gaby was waiting for them in a jeep.  


“They must keep it here for emergencies,” she said. She’d hotwired it, and the engine was revving.  


“I think this qualifies,” gasped Napoleon. Illya shoved him into the back and they roared away.

*****

“Hold still,” Illya commanded for the tenth time. Napoleon moving restlessly while he tried to disinfect the bites on his arm. It was an ugly wound, but he thought it would heal just fine. Still, if it wasn’t cleaned, it would get infected. Who knew who else that dog had chewed on.  


“So your American charm doesn’t extend to dogs?” Gaby sniped from the couch.  


“There are such things as extenuating circumstances, Gaby,” Napoleon shot back.  


“No there aren’t” Illya muttered, “and no such thing as American charm, either.”  


“Hey!” Napoleon went to protest, but Illya poured more iodine over the deeper punctures. The spy hissed in pain. “That was unnecessary.”  


“That was thorough,” Illya corrected, beginning to wrap clean gauze around his arm. “but apparently our intel was not. I will be insisting that we do our own reconnaissance from now on.”  


“Careful, Peril,” Napoleon teased, “someone might think you were worried.”  


“Hardly,” Illya snorted, “but I wouldn’t want those dogs to get indigestion from eating you.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little late, not too bad this time! This is the last chapter (the +1). Hope you have enjoyed it! I have another MFU fic that I will probably update and post soon. Thank you for all of your lovely reviews!

It was dark. Not just the darkness of night, but the absolute blackness of the underground. Illya couldn’t see his hand when he held it in front of his face, so he had given up trying. It hurt too much to move anyway. It was also cold, but that didn’t bother him as much. He was used to the cold, after all. What his teammates considered winter was practically balmy to him.  


Sometimes there would be a little light, coming in from the crack at the bottom of the door to the room, but that usually meant that they were coming to try to beat information out of him. Again. He gave an amused huff. He wasn’t going to give them anything. They should have realized that by now. Maybe they had--he hadn’t seen anyone in awhile.  


He blinked. The light was coming from under the door; maybe he’d spoken too soon.  


Muffled bangs. Gunshots?  


Faint shouting. Two more shots (it had to be gunfire).  


Silence. The light still shone steadily from under the door. Illya sat very still, tension tightening his muscles, making his bruises ache. A key scraped in the lock of the door and the tumblers clicked into place. The heavy metal rectangle swung inward, the harsh light silhouetting a man in the door.  


Illya felt a little giddy. He would recognize that silhouette anywhere.  


“Illya?” Napoleon ventured. The cell was dark and he wouldn’t have had time to adjust.  


“Took you long enough,” Illya rasped. It had been days since he’d uttered any words. His statement seemed to be all Napoleon needed. The American came forward, moving fluidly like a snow leopard. He knelt beside Illya.  


“Do you think you can walk out of here?” Napoleon asked, assessing Illya. His face was a hard mask--none of the usual levity. He reloaded his gun at the same time, barely even looking at it. All of his attention was on the Russian.  


“I can manage,” Illya told him. It was probably the truth. “How are we getting out?”  


“Through the front door.”  


Illya raised an eyebrow. “Easy as that?”  


Napoleon grinned, but it reminded Illya of a snarling predator more than a friendly expression. “There’s no one to object. But we shouldn’t linger.”  


He helped Illya stand up--a painful process. He had a few cracked ribs, and a multitude of bruises and abrasions, but no major damage. Illya swayed a little once he got upright, little black dots dancing in front of his vision, and mentally amended that list to include a concussion. Napoleon ducked under his arm so that he could help support his weight.  


The bright light of the corridor hurt Illya’s eyes, making them water. The bulbs were left bare and hanging from the ceiling by wires. Napoleon tugged him left, and Illya followed without protest. He’d had a hood over his head when they brought him down here, but the American seemed to be confident of their direction. Illya just wanted to get out of the featureless grey concrete tunnel and sleep for a week. He suddenly realized that Napoleon was speaking.  


“--where Gaby will be with our boat. I don’t know who thought that an island was a good idea for a hideout. It only makes it easier to get in.”  


“Gaby is with a boat?” Illya managed, half-comprehending.  


“Yes,” Napoleon confirmed. “This is a quick extraction, so we agreed that she be ready when you and I returned.” It didn’t pass Illya’s notice that it was when and not if.  


They passed the first body after several hundred feet. The guard had a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. Napoleon ignored it other than to pull Illya around. After that they increased in frequency, sometimes three or four at a time, all killed with a head or center mass shot. Illya hadn’t known that Napoleon was that good of a marksman, and suddenly realized that there was a lot that he didn’t know about his partner.  


But he had known he would come. And that was enough.  


The door to the bunker was a huge metal thing. It had been blown apart. Shrapnel littered the ground in the hangar that it opened into, sometimes embedded in more bodies. Illya had lost count. Napoleon seemed not notice them, intent on scanning for living targets.  


“You blew the door?” Illya asked. Explosions weren’t usually his partner’s thing.  


“No lock to pick,” Napoleon replied, “and it was faster.”  


They picked their way across the blast field and out into the open air. The sky was just beginning to lighten to grey, and a sea breeze was blowing across the island. Illya took as deep a breath as he could manage with three broken ribs and who knew how many cracked, savoring the clean air.  


“Only a little farther,” Napoleon told him. He must have noticed that he was flagging. They started off again, down to the beach.  


Napoleon had been telling the truth--it really wasn’t long before the boat--a small motorboat, painted black--came into view.  


“Gaby,” Napoleon called. “It’s us.”  


Her head appeared over the side of the boat. Then she stood up. There was a gun in her hand.  


“Illya?” She called.  


“Good morning,” he replied. The whole situation was becoming surreal to him, although that could have been due to the concussion.  


Napoleon piled him into the back of the boat and Gaby started fussing over him while the American guided them out into open ocean and away from the island.  


“Waverly will arrange clean up,” he called back to them from the front of the boat.  


"We were worried,” Gaby said, so softly that her words were almost lost in the wind.  


“Nothing to worry about now,” he said, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face.  


“No,” she said, glancing between Napoleon and him and smiling, “not now.”


End file.
